“Ohio,” Ms. Barrantes pipes up.
“Ohio,” Kendrick repeats. “I wish you and your family peace and solace.”
“I’ve watched Purple Tape a hundred times,” Quincy blurts.
Kendrick’s brow lifts. “My mom hasn’t even watched Purple Tape. There are probably only four people who even know it exists.”
“I bought it online. It’s not the best copy, and there’s a couple spots where the video goes out for a second, but it’s all there. I saved up for it for a long time. But it was so worth it. Your jokes are like a freaking master class in writing. Most of the time they don’t even feel like jokes. Just like awesome stories that make you laugh.”
Kendrick nods. “Well, thank you, Quincy. That’s one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said.” He takes a step toward the wing. Looks back again. “Take care, man.”
And then he’s gone, presumably to change clothes for another bit, or grab a beer, or whatever hosts do in between segments.
Q trash-compacts his cheeks with both hands. “Ohmigod! Did that just . . . did Kendrick stop and talk . . . did . . . ?”
And I’m laughing because this is what it’s all about. This is why we’ve come. To see Q’s face look like this. To witness Q’s tongue make these sounds. To see Q’s eyes stretch this wide.
The guard pokes my back, pops my thought bubble. “All right, you’ve had your fun. Let’s go, kid.”
“Is there like a phrase book all you security people use?” I ask.
“Hardy-har, now get moving,” he barks.
Whit tries to push herself up from her bucket seat. “You aren’t taking my brother anywhere. I’m his guardian and he didn’t do anything wrong.”
The guard holds up his hands. “Look, we’re just headed for the lobby, ma’am. There’s a TV in there, he can watch. Bagels, too, if he behaves.”
I step into the aisle. “See, I’ll be fine. I’ll see you guys after, okay?” But I’m already walking down the stairs toward the exit before they can protest anymore.
It’s not the worst thing, watching in the lobby. Chairs are comfortable enough, and there’s free coffee. I sit on the edge of my seat for most of the taping, fingers crossed, hoping by some miracle Q finds his way onto the stage. But then the television monitor dims and the screen falls black, flipping the switch on the last of my optimism. But I don’t move. I know it’s not happening, but I can’t accept we’ve failed. I failed.
Maybe I could run onto the stage.
Or slip behind it and find Kendrick’s dressing room and do that action-movie thing where I get some momentum and then lead with my shoulder into the heart of the door, ripping the bolt from its lock.
Or find his car. I find his car and wait there for him to come out. There are probably pictures of his car online, shouldn’t be that hard to find, and if the other guards are anything like this one, how hard could it be to sneak through undetected?
“Don’t even think about it,” the security guard says, reading my mind. “Here, have another bagel.”
I look at the door behind him, the door from whence we came. No way he’s fast enough to stop me. I stand up and fall into a track-meet stance.
The security guard laughs. “Kid, I’ve been second runner-up at five amateur wrestling tournaments. I’ll suplex you so hard your kids’ll come out dizzy.”
I laugh because that was funny. I drop the track pose and stand up out of respect for my unborn children.
There must be another way, which is when the security guard starts grinning.
“What’s so cute?” I ask.
He nods toward the monitor. “Looks like your friend didn’t need you after all.”
14
My knees feel buzzy, wobbly. Or maybe that’s my head.
I can’t believe my eyes. This can’t be happening.
Q, a chrome mic in his hand, smiles and gazes into the camera like he was made for TV. No, like TV was made for him.
“So, I flew in from Ohio and it got me thinking about the first ever commercial flight. Can you imagine how that must’ve gone?
Your dad trying to convince you it was safe?
Now, son, I promise it’ll be okay. What’s the worst that could happen?
Dad, it’s a giant sardine can with flimsy wings flying thirty thousand feet in the air? Mom was right. You really do lack imagination.
You know what I hate most about flying?
The half can of pop they serve you. What, the seven thousand dollars I paid for this flight won’t cover a couple more swigs of lemon-lime? And to make sure you have even less to drink, they jam-pack your cup with ice. I’m sorry, are we still cooling my soda? Or should I grab my pick-ax and start climbing?
And this is no regular ice. No. This ice instantly melts on contact. Soon as she pours the capful of soda, boom, the top layer of your drink is pure tap water. You down half of your cup before you can even remember what you ordered, that’s how watered down that thing is.
You take two more slurps and it’s gone and now you’ve still got a bag of mini pretzels you can’t tear open to save your life. And who came up with mini pretzels anyway? Were pretzels really so big we needed to shrink them?”
I couldn’t tell you how long Q’s set is.
Only that he kills, slays, murders.
When he’s finished, he takes the deepest, most expressive bow ever.
And then he drops the mic.
Except it doesn’t hit the ground because he’s still hanging on to the cord.
He pulls it up back by the cord and laughs. “Just playing, I know this costs more than this entire audience makes in a year. This thing heavy as hell. What’s this made of? Gold bullion? I didn’t wanna break it because soon as I walk off this stage, I’m stuffing it my pants, taking it back to Ohio.”
And it doesn’t matter if I now remember just how hilarious Q is.
It doesn’t matter if all of America falls in love with his charm, with his humility.
I hope they appreciate what they’ve just experienced.
I hope his words pop into their brains in the middle of a random Tuesday and they start laughing seemingly out of nowhere.
Because Quincy Michael Barrantes isn’t just comedy gold.
He’s just gold, period.
13
We hit up this Italian spot for our celebratory dinner because Q’s got a hankering for pasta and Whit says she’ll murder someone for a slice of tiramisu—which, satisfying a craving and preventing homicide, no-brainer.
My phone rings midway through dessert.
“How was your evening in studio prison?” Mr. Oklahoma asks.
“I’m not gonna lie, man. You knowing the intimate details of our lives is kinda scary. Anyway, Q brought the house down. Even you would’ve laughed.”
“Suppose he’d collapsed on that stage,” he says. “Then what?”
“That’s no way to live, Mr. O.”
A beat.
“I am glad it worked out for Quincy.”
“Me too.” And maybe it’s rude to say, but. “Mr. Oklahoma, I didn’t like you when I first met you.”
“I’m not here to be liked.”
“I said when I first met you.”
“I know what you said.”
This guy. “So, is that it? You just called to talk about how well Operation Get Q on Later Tonight worked?”
“No, Jamal.” A long pause. “I just called to say good job. So, good job, Jamal.”
Before I can reply, he’s gone.
12
Whit orders a car, and we stand in a huddle outside the bistro.
“Where to next?” Ms. Barrantes asks.
I smile. “I mean, only one of us got dessert.” Whit shoots me a death look.
Autumn taps best dessert in NYC, reads us a list of choices.
“Q, you choose,” I say.
But he shakes his head. “Damn, word? A brother should die more often.”
Except when the car comes, I take Autumn’s hand
, stop Q from getting inside.
“Let’s walk,” I say. “It’s only a few blocks.”
Q smiles. “Uh-oh, you got that look in your eyes.”
“Look? What look?” I laugh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
11
What I finally understand about Q’s Comedy Hour, about Jauncy, is that it wasn’t just about being funny.
It was about two kids finding their voices.
Learning to believe in themselves.
And maybe, most of all, it was a way to bring people together.
And, sometimes, reunite them.
10
That night, before we fall asleep, Autumn already snoring lightly, I turn to Whit, a nightstand between our beds, and I ask her—
“How did I get so lucky?”
And at first, I can’t be sure she’s awake—the room dark save for the slant of city lights stretching across the top of the pulled curtains—so I ask her again.
“Hey, you awake? ’Cuz I’m serious, Whit. I haven’t felt this happy since . . . thank you for being the coolest sister ever, and I’m not even just saying that because I’m in a good mood.”
Still no answer. No movement. I listen for her breathing, but between Autumn’s and the outside rattle of passing cars, I don’t hear anything over there.
“Whit?” I ask the darkness.
And I think I hear a small but sharp sniffle, the beginnings of a light sob, but no matter how quiet I am, how much I slow my own breathing, I don’t hear it again.
“Don’t you hate people who use big words just to prove they’re not hebetudinous?” I ask, hoping if she is awake, she’ll laugh.
But she doesn’t laugh.
So I pop in my earbuds and listen to the latest Mighty Moat album, Sad Songs Make Me Happy, until I drift drift drift.
Day 6
<7 Q Hours Left
9
Our flight’s set for dawn’s ass crack, which means when we crowd into the hotel shuttle it’s still dark.
I feel bad for our driver because everyone’s snoring combined, it’s basically a snore-a-palooza for the ages, but hey, it’s been a crazy couple days, give us a break, right.
When we finally make it back to Ohio, it’s that weird feeling as we walk through the airport parking garage to Ms. B’s car. That feeling when you’ve just had a profound, intimate moment with a group of people and you’re not ready to go your separate ways.
And everything feels like deep feels, if that makes sense.
Like everything is super cold or super hot or super tiring or super frustrating or super funny because we’ve lost all of our filters and barriers and cushions and buffers and we’re just straight feelings, no chaser.
And it doesn’t help that I can’t stop checking my watch.
That even as we load our luggage into the car, I catch everyone doing the same, although we all try to do it undetected. Glancing at our phone screens like we’re checking for a message or an alert or whatever.
But we’re all looking at the same thing:
How much time Q has left.
And I wasn’t gonna tell you because I don’t want that to be the focus.
But I know it’s the room-elephant.
So here it is, for your countdowning pleasure:
We’re T minus two hours from Q’s four-hour departure window.
Happy now?
8
We squeeze the last bag back into Ms. B’s sedan and close the trunk.
And it’s a question we’ve been avoiding.
Dodging.
Doing our best to tap-dance and tiptoe around, but it’s something we have to address. Q sees to this.
“So, uh, aren’t you guys gonna ask me where I wanna be when I kick the bucket?”
And the car is silent.
Q laughs. “Guys, it’s gonna happen. I mean, that’s what this whole thing is about, right?”
And he’s right. So I try to be brave. “So where do you wanna be when . . . ?”
Q doesn’t hesitate.
Fires back as if he’s been waiting to answer this question all his life.
Maybe he has.
All his second life.
“You sure?” Ms. B asks from the driver’s seat. “Isn’t that kinda . . .”
“Masochistic,” Whit chimes.
“I think it’s fitting.” Q nods. “Circle of life and all that.”
Ms. B shakes her head. “Well, it’s your decision, Quincy,” she says. “And we’re gonna support you whatever you want, baby.”
They smile at each other through the rearview mirror. “Thanks, Mama,” he says.
“We probably should drive straight over, right?” Autumn suggests. “Maximize the time.”
We all agree.
So, yeah, you guessed it.
The last four hours of Quincy Michael Barrantes’s life are spent at . . .
. . . the beach.
Which, not gonna lie, is eerie as hell.
But hey, it’s his funeral.
Damn, that was awful.
Okay, the only person who gets to crack jokes about Q’s death is Q.
Ms. Barrantes starts tearing up before we even get to the actual sand. “I’m not crying,” she says. “I think I’m allergic to something out here.”
Q laughs. “To sand? Water?” He wraps her in a hug.
And when they start walking along the water, Whit, Autumn, and I hang back. But apparently, crying’s an infectious disease, because Whit breaks out in tears. And then I’m next. And Autumn joins in on the fun.
And I promise you haven’t lived until you’ve had an ugly-cry party.
When Q comes back, he looks us all over, like a drill sergeant examining his cadets. “Look at you all. This is supposed to be a party, remember? This is pathetic. You can do better than this. Pull yourselves together, you hear me?”
“Yes sir,” we say, our hands raised to our foreheads in salute.
“Now, turn the music on and let’s have an ugly dance-off.” He turns to me. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna make you start because you’d destroy us all.”
I push him away. “I couldn’t ugly dance if I tried.”
“Ha!” With his toes, Q draws a line in the sand. “Well, then, let’s do this, my friend.”
The music starts and our battle is barely underway—Q already with a sizable lead because his normal dancing is already ugly. He’s basically starting this race at the finish line. But whatever—when I see someone walking toward us down the beach.
I stop dancing and Q gives me a look. I nod, and he turns around.
“Bri,” he says softly. And then loudly, “Bri!”
He tears down the beach and they’re hugging and he’s lifting her off the ground. And I know what Q said. That we’re pathetic. That this is a party.
But a guy can only take so much.
And there’s no way this is possible, but I feel like Bri’s a ringer.
Within seconds of the music resuming, it’s clear this is not her first ugly-dancing tournament.
Nope. She’s a pro among amateurs.
Wouldn’t surprise me at all to find out she’s an ugly-dancing hustler who roams from city to city, town to town, baiting the unsuspecting into challenging her to a dance duel, fooling them into upping their wager, only to dance them down in the dusty street, the sheriff, the townspeople, helplessly looking on.
Which is to say, Bri’s ugly-dance annihilates every last one of us.
She is the ugly-dancing champion of . . . Elytown beach.
Q keeps calling her his dancing queen, which is only more proof he was born in the wrong century, but what do I know?
We all take turns spending a few minutes alone with Q. And every time he walks away with someone, I’m not gonna lie, I get nervous.
Afraid that we won’t get to talk before he goes away.
But then with about forty-five minutes left, Q motions for me to follow him down the beach.
“Don’t
go too far,” Ms. Barrantes. “Or be too long.”
Q shakes his head. “We’ll be right over there, and we’ll be right back. Just gotta have a word with my friend.”
We walk about thirty yards toward the water and stop, our backs to everyone. The waves are less sloshy than when we first arrived. The sun lower in the sky.
“Yo, we’re cutting it close,” I say.
“Haha, you know I like to take my time, do things right.”
I smile. “This I know, yes. Among the many other things I know about you. Some of which I wish I didn’t know.”
Q laughs. “I gotta say, that worries me. You don’t exactly have the best track record for keeping secrets lately.”
“Wow,” I say, covering my mouth with my hand, in exaggerated disbelief. “Did you really just say that? Wow. You went there.”
Q shrugs, still laughing, and I can’t help but join in.
“So, listen, I had this whole speech written out last night. I wanted to be witty and clever when we talked. I wanted my final, private words to you to be the kind that stick with you forever, but . . .”
“Everything about you is gonna stick with me forever, Q.”
He forces out a smile. But his face’s heavier now. “I’m just gonna freestyle, if that’s cool? Yeah?”
He waits for me to nod before continuing. “So, you know how you spend most of your time compiling in your brain things that you one day want to do? How you often bound from one great idea to the next one without even starting, or at least finishing, the first idea because you figure, hey why not, I’ll get back to it eventually? Yeah, don’t do that anymore. Don’t wait for those days to come to you, Jamal. Make those days happen. Because as it turns out, we do not have all the time in the world. We only get a finite amount. Don’t waste it being sad, or angry, or frustrated. Don’t waste it with regrets. Don’t waste a second. Live each day like it’s your last four hours. Live each hour like the seconds matter. And most of all, don’t be afraid to be you, Jamal. Because you’re awesome—no matter what other people say. You’re the best, man. And you’ve got the whole world right in front of you. So, live like it, okay? LIVE LIKE IT!”
Early Departures Page 24
